Master and Mage
by Sam Davidson
Summary: UPDATED Bran and Will are both heading off to uni. Their friendship has faltered, just as Will had planned, but as they start a new chapter in their lives, anything can happen... Especially when there's magic involved.
1. Where are they now?

Master and Mage

By Sam Davidson

Disclaimer: Susan Cooper graced the world with these characters, and we mortals may only pick them up and play with them, putting them back gratefully when we are done.

A/N: I miss writing fanfiction, so I have decided to have another go. Please tell me if it's crap, and I'll stop—otherwise I shall continue (I _actually_ have an idea of where this one is going). Yes, as others I have written, it will be slash, though probably not for a while.

Chapter One: Where are they now?

Bran Davies could never quite shake the feeling that there was something odd about him. Well, something _other_ than his unnaturally pale skin and hair and his glowing tawny eyes. He had long since gotten used to those, and while people still gave him odd looks when they thought he wasn't watching, at least the merciless teasing he had been subjected to in primary school had faded away with time. And yet there was something else, something that separated him from the rest of his mates at school, even those who had known him long enough that they no longer noticed his appearance as anything other than normal.

_Oh, give me a break,_ he told himself, dropping into the driver's seat of his rather beat-up Saab. _Different? Different my arse. Insular is what you are. Antisocial, self-pitying, holier-than-thou…_But it would be different at uni, he rationalised, pulling out of the library car park and heading out of Tywyn. It had to be different. There would be others like him—others who cared about learning and would get engaged in debates about etymology, or Marx, or devolution. He would find true friends… Bran had to cut off this train of thought as he manoeuvred around the orange pylons marking off construction on the roundabout at the edge of town. One of the road workers looked up as he passed, but Bran paid him no mind, exiting the roundabout and setting off on the road that led up into the hills toward home.

Will Stanton sighed as he watched Bran pass. He had started periodically checking in on the Welsh boy soon after his memories of their shared adventures had been erased, but always like this, always in secret. He was the cashier at the supermarket, a passer-by in the street. Once, the previous year, he had interviewed Bran during the university application process—it was the most personal contact they had had in five years, and Bran didn't even know it was him. Their friendship had become awkward after that fateful summer, and had soon died away completely, just as Will had planned. And yet, he still checked in, picking up whatever bits of information he could about his former friend's life. It was infuriating sometimes, how little he could learn in these brief encounters. It always left him wanting to know more. He didn't even know where Bran had ended up deciding to go to uni. But it was important for Will just to see, to know that Bran was okay. He checked in on the others as well: John Rowlands, his aunt and uncle, Stephen, and his other siblings as, one by one, they left home. He felt responsible for them all.

Will's own turn to leave home was fast approaching. He was going to Oxford to study anthropology, and the part of him that was still an eighteen-year-old boy was starting to get excited. He did, after all, have many years ahead of him before his immortality would begin to confront him with the inevitable painful questions, and for now, he could enjoy the rich world of academia that he believed to be embodied in Oxford University. _Before that, though, you need to get back to Buckinghamshire and feed the chickens_, a voice in his head reminded him. As he had discovered, no amount of toying with time would enable him to bend the laws of cause and effect—as long he did not feed the chickens, they would remain unfed, and he would have to deal with one irate Alice Stanton. With another sigh, he lay down his shovel and walked away, shimmering and vanishing as his steps carried him home.


	2. Chickens

Master and Mage

By Sam Davidson

Disclaimer: Susan Cooper graced the world with these characters, and we mortals may only pick them up and play with them, putting them back gratefully when we are done.

A/N: I miss writing fanfiction, so I have decided to have another go. Please tell me if it's crap, and I'll stop—otherwise I shall continue. Yes, as others I have written, it will be slash, though probably not for a while. I dedicate this chapter to countessvorkosigan, who wrote me some very nice reviews and convinced me to try writing something again.

Chapter Two: Chickens

Chickens are nasty creatures. Anyone who says otherwise has either spent too little time with them to know their true nature, or too much. Will Stanton did not like chickens. In fact, he did not particularly like most of the animals with whom he shared his rural Buckinghamshire life. He would take a book over an animal any day. A book does not bite you, it does not require you do feed it, it does not require you to clean up after it, and it smells nice. However, at least until he went off to Oxford, his role as official Stanton chicken feeder was not one to be shirked.

Returning from his brief stint as a Welsh road worker, as always when he returned from another place or time, Will made sure to appear out of site of any neighbours, most of whom would be rather put out by seeing the youngest Stanton boy suddenly shimmer into existence in the middle of the road. This accomplished, he walked the last stretch up to the house, but veered away from the front path and headed around the back to get the chicken feeding over with before going inside, so he wouldn't have to come back out again. Ducking into the henhouse, he pulled the lid off the bucket of feed and poured some out. "Here you go, you bloody birds, eat up! Or don't—see if I care. Foul looking stuff anyways."

Feeding accomplished, he trudged back to the house and let himself in the back door, and was met by a wall of heat. It was only September, and had just barely got cold enough to wear a jacket, but Will's mother had always made a practice of getting a head start on winter, "making the house nice and warm before the cold has a chance to settle in," as she put it. Will peeled off his jacket, kicked off his boots, and made his way into the kitchen, where Alice Stanton herself was standing at the sink washing dishes, humming cheerfully to herself.

"Hi, mum," Will said, by way of announcing his presence. Mrs Stanton jumped slightly and put her hand on her heart.

"Will! Why do you have to scare me, always sneaking up like that?" Will resisted the urge to point out that the door had in fact made quite a bit of noise when he closed it, and that perhaps the problem was more with his mother's hearing than with his propensity to move clandestinely about the house.

"Sorry," he replied, "I didn't mean to-"

"Oh, never mind. You got a letter from St. John's in the post today—I left it on the table there for you." Will looked down and saw that, sure enough, there on the table was an envelope decorated with the familiar coat of arms of St. John's College, where he would be studying at Oxford. He tore it open and pulled out the letterhead, scanning the contents quickly.

"What does it say, dear?" his mother asked.

"Oh, nothing important. The dean of the college wishes to welcome me to the St. John's family… college accommodations open the 12th of October… Michaelmas term begins the 14th… All the best…" Will folded up the letter and tossed it along with the envelope into the rubbish. "Bunch of stuff I already know."

As he left the kitchen and headed up to his bedroom, though, he couldn't help feeling a little giddy. It was really happening—he was going to Oxford. The bad mood he had been stuck in since checking in on Bran began to lift. When he got to his room, he automatically checked the quartered-circle talismans hanging in each window and above the door. Everything was as it should be, of course, but as the Watcher, he always had to be on the lookout. Not that the Dark would necessarily come straight to him if it managed to return, but somehow it seemed like the right thing to do. He sighed and lay down on the bed, then rolled over to grab his book, a translation of Wolfram von Eschenbach's _Parzival_, off the bedside table. Removing the leather bookmark, he began to read, not stirring until his mother's voice called up from downstairs announcing supper.


	3. Bed

Master and Mage

By Sam Davidson

Disclaimer: Susan Cooper graced the world with these characters, and we mortals may only pick them up and play with them, putting them back gratefully when we are done.

A/N: This story is slash. If you have a problem with that, then do not read it. Or do, but don't get mad at _me_ if it offends _your_ homophobic sensibilities. And on a lighter note, I dedicate this chapter to the fabulous Gramarye, who helpfully answered my queries about DiR canon (I don't actually have the books gasp, and haven't read them in a while, so I needed a little refresher).

Chapter Three: Bed

Bran lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was a nice ceiling. It was a familiar ceiling. He knew the knots and swirls of the wood like the back of his hand. Pulling the covers up to his chin, he basked in the comfort of warmth and familiarity. It was the first morning of the season where it was just cold enough that even wide awake, there was a certain temptation to simply not get out of bed. The sunlight streaming in the window had a certain crisp quality, and even though everything outside was still green, it looked somehow more brittle now, ready to be blown away by the coming autumn winds. And yet, there was something invigorating about the crispness, as well, something that made one want to get up and do things. And so, after savouring the warmth a few moments longer, Bran steeled himself to relinquish the comforts of bed. Pulling the covers reluctantly aside, he sat up, swung his legs around, and set his bare feet gingerly on the floor. Due to the gap between his father's Calvinist frugality and Bran's own growth rate over the past few years, there was a considerable amount of ankle showing between those feet and the bottoms of his pyjama trousers, but this was something Bran had never minded before. Now that he was going to university, however, little things like this were beginning to worry him. Would the other freshers think him unworthy to rub shoulders with them? Would they laugh at the poor sheepherder from the Welsh hinterland? No matter how many times Bran told himself that these sorts of fears were totally unfounded, not to mention childish, they kept coming back to nestle in the back of his mind.

Now fully out of bed, he padded over to his wardrobe, the cold air prickling at his bare arms and torso. He quickly pulled on a shirt, buttoned it, and added a dark green jumper for good measure. This completed, he changed into his customary black jeans and examined the final product in the mirror on the wardrobe door: nothing to be ashamed of. _Besides, if you're trying not to attract attention by your appearance, _he reminded himself, _clothing is likely to be the least of your worries._

Now fully dressed, he walked back over to make his bed, and as he did so his eyes fell on the envelope still sitting on the table next to the bed. He had read and reread the letter inside many times, just like all of the ones that had come before it, and yet at times he still couldn't believe his luck. Who would have thought that a poor Welsh sheepherder would get the opportunity to study music, his passion, and not just at any school, but at the school of his dreams? He knew the beginning of the letter by heart:

_Dear Mr. Davies:_

_On behalf of all the staff and faculty here, it is my pleasure to welcome you officially to St. John's College, Oxford…_

Bran pictured those words, on their background of creamy white stationery, as he made his way down the stairs to the kitchen. His father had of course been up for hours, but there was still some porridge in the pot on the stove, so Bran turned on the burner to heat it up again. There was also a quickly scrawled note on the table, reminding Bran that he needed to repair a piece of fence in one of the pastures. _Yes, Da, I know_, he thought, _but not just yet. There's plenty of time._ And with that he filled up the kettle, set it to boil, stretched, and sat down to wait, totally at peace.


	4. Down from the hills

Master and Mage

By Sam Davidson

Disclaimer: Susan Cooper graced the world with these characters, and we mortals may only pick them up and play with them, putting them back gratefully when we are done.

A/N: This story is slash. If you have a problem with that, then do not read it. Or do, but don't get mad at _me_ if it offends _your_ homophobic sensibilities. For the rest of you: enjoy!

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Chapter Four: Down from the hills

_England is an awfully flat place_, thought Bran, as his train chugged steadily east, away from the mountains, and away from home. Parts of England had hills aplenty, he knew, having seen them himself, and yet whenever he made the journey from the Welsh border eastward through Herefordshire, it always seemed to him as if some giant had taken the land and stretched it out flat. All that horizon made him nervous. Well, to be honest, there were other things making him nervous at the moment as well. He shifted in his seat, unconsciously reaching out to place a hand on his harp case, which was sitting on the floor in front of his seat. He had told himself it was just his imagination, but it felt like he had got more odd looks than usual since setting out from home. He felt extremely self-conscious, and had to fight the urge to glance around the train car to see if someone was looking at him.

He pulled out a book and tried to read, but he couldn't keep his attention on the page. His mind would wander, and he would realise he didn't know how long he'd been staring at the same sentence. Somewhere in Gloucestershire it began to rain.

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Will didn't know how long he'd been staring out the widow. The steady rocking of the train car had had the effect of putting him in a sort of trance, almost like the sensation of being outside of Time. Well, not quite. There was nothing like being outside of time—nothing.

It had been raining steadily since he had got on the train in Buckinghamshire, and while the scenery had changed around him, the hills levelling out as the train headed south and west, the sky had remained a solid, empty grey. There were no discernable clouds, no threatening dark bulks, just a colourless, concrete opaqueness. It looked, Will thought, as if the painter in charge of depicting the day had simply left that portion of the canvas blank. The sun was nowhere to be seen, trees and telephone poles along the track cast no shadows, and the streams looked steely and hard. The world looked dead, and Will found it hard to keep his spirits from sinking in accordance with the view through the glass.

With a conscious effort, he pulled his gaze away from the window and back into the compartment in which he was sitting. He had the train car almost to himself, a fact he attributed only half-jokingly to the fact that no one would really want to be going anywhere on that sort of day. The few other passengers also sat silently huddled in their seats, many staring out their respective windows as Will had been doing. One man caught Will looking in his direction, frowned, and hid behind his copy of the _Times_. The car was a modern one, in which smooth plastic curves had replaced the wood panelling of the classically romanticised cars of the heyday of British rail. The predominant colour was a shade of tan Will had once heard referred to as "industrial blah", and was contrasted starkly by the patriotically blue seat cushions. This décor did little to raise Will's mood. Reaching into his rucksack, which was occupying the seat next to him, he pulled out the waxed-paper packet of shortbread his mother had given him for the trip. Alice Stanton was famous for her shortbread. He unwrapped the packet gingerly so as not to get crumbs everywhere, broke off a piece, and placed it in his mouth. _Maybe_, he thought, _the day isn't really all that bad_.

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It hadn't taken Bran long to unpack his things, as he didn't have much to unpack. The room had come with a bed, desk, chair, wardrobe, and bookshelf, and the only major addition to these basic furnishings that the room now contained was Bran's harp, which had taken up a place of honour in one corner. His clothes were stored in the wardrobe, and his electric typewriter—a going away present from his father—sat on the desk, along with a few pens. Looking around the room, he made a mental note to buy a desk lamp when the opportunity presented itself.

Sensing that there was little more to be done at that juncture, he decided to investigate the rest of the hall. As soon as he stepped out the door, however, he was promptly run into by a large cardboard box.

"Oi, watch where you're going!" he snapped, still somewhat irritated from the long train ride.

The box froze.

Realising that snapping like that at someone he didn't know and who he might very well be living with for the next year probably wasn't a great idea, Bran quickly apologized. "Sorry, I didn't mean that. It's been a long day."

The box stayed frozen.

"Uh," Bran tried, "do you want a hand with that? If you want, I could—"

"Bran?"


	5. Moving in day

Master and Mage

By Sam Davidson

Disclaimer: Susan Cooper graced the world with these characters, and we mortals may only pick them up and play with them, putting them back gratefully when we are done.

A/N: I apologize sincerely for the horrendously long delay in updating. It seems what inspiration I have tends to come in fits and starts (not to mention classwork and other little, unimportant things like that). Hopefully the next update will not take nearly as long, though I admit I can't make promises. Thanks for your patience.

This story is slash. If you have a problem with that, then do not read it. Or do, but don't get mad at _me_ if it offends _your_ homophobic sensibilities. For the rest of you: enjoy!

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Chapter Five: Moving-in day

According to the sociologist Erving Goffman, when your working definition of a social interaction gets thrown out the window, you tend to freeze. You no longer have a script to follow, nothing to tell you what to do. Having read a bit of Goffman, it occurred to Will that this was one of these moments.

"Yes, that's my name," Bran responded. "How do you—"

But then Will put down the box. A slow look of recognition crept over the Welsh boy's face. "Will. _Duw_. I… Are you…?

"Well, fancy meeting you here," Will said, a little too brightly. He forced a smile. _What have I gotten myself into?_ "It's sure been a while."

"Yeah, it has. I had no idea you were coming here, I… Well, I suppose I didn't really have any way of knowing, did I?"

_Bloody hell_, thought Will. _Of all the places I could have ended up going to school… Out of all the places _he_ could have ended up going to school. Why? What's he even studying here? _Then he remembered, from the interview of the previous year: the harp. "Have you got your harp in your room, then?" he asked.

"Yes, it's—wait, how did you know I was studying music?"

_Watch it, Will! Don't let down your guard._ "Oh, I, umm, I just meant that maybe you'd brought it along. I didn't know that you were actually studying music officially. I mean, how could I?"

Bran gave him a piercing look, and was about to say something else when a voice from behind Will interrupted him. "Excuse me, do you think you could move your box out of the way so I can get through?"

"Oh, sorry. Didn't see you there," Will replied. "Umm, Bran, do you think I could just shove this in your room for a second so that, uh…"

"Robbie?" the boy offered.

"Right, so that Robbie can get by?"

"Sure," said Bran, holding the door open with one hand as he extended the other toward the boy named Robbie, reaching over Will, who was bent over his box. "I'm Bran, by the way." Robbie took his hand and shook it. "Oh, and that one there," he gestured with his chin, "is Will."

"You know each other? I mean, from before…"

Will looked up just in time to see Bran glance quickly down at him. He gave the box one more shove into the room and stood up, brushing his hands off on his trousers. "Yeah, we were, umm, friends when we were kids." Bran nodded in agreement. "Just met each other here, though—I had no that Bran was coming." He forced a smile, as if to say, _What a coincidence!_ There was a pause, as each of them realised they really didn't have anything else to say.

"Well," Robbie broke the silence, "I should go bring the rest of my stuff up to my room. I'll see you around!" He set off down the hall, and Will turned to go back into Bran's room. It was sparse, he saw, even more so than he remembered Bran's room in his house to be. There were none of the posters of favourite football teams or bands, none of the cluttered knick-knacks and school supplies that seemed ubiquitous in all the other dormitory rooms he had peered into. Only the harp, standing alone in the corner and seeming oddly out of place, and what looked like a second hand electric typewriter on the desk. What did Bran care about? What went on in his head? Will found himself desperately wanting to know, but he knew instinctively that none of his powers as an old one would be able to tell him. If he wanted to discover who Bran Davies really was, he would have to reach out to him on a human level, a skill that didn't come as easily to Will as it had in the first eleven years of his life.

"You all right, Will?" Bran's voice coming from behind startled him, and he wondered how long he had been standing in the doorway looking in.

"Yeah, I was just… Here, let me get this out of your way." He reached down, hefted the box up, and stepped with it back out into the hallway. "I've got to get this to my room. I'll see you later."

"See you," replied Bran. Will set off down the hallway, looking back just in time to see Bran's door swing shut.


	6. Getting started

Master and Mage

By Sam Davidson

Disclaimer: Susan Cooper graced the world with these characters, and we mortals may only pick them up and play with them, putting them back gratefully when we are done.

A/N: I fully realise that, due to the immense amount of time that has passed since I last updated this story, any of you who have read the previous sections may well have forgotten them completely by now. You may, naturally, review them if you wish; alternatively, you may read the following brief synopsis:

_The friendship between Will Stanton and Bran Davies has withered away since Bran's memory was modified; however, Will continues to check on him secretly, and wishes to know more about the person Bran has become. Both are about to commence studies at St. John's College, Oxford, though neither knows of the other's presence until a chance encounter on arrival day._

This story is slash. If you have a problem with that, then do not read it. Or do, but don't get mad at _me_ if it offends _your_ homophobic sensibilities. For the rest of you: enjoy!

Lastly, this story is meant to be set circa 1980. If you notice any anachronisms or other such errors, please let me know. Now, on with the story…

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Chapter Six: Getting Started

Bran closed the door and sat down on his bed, his earlier plan of exploring the dormitory quite forgotten. He had not expected to see anyone he knew at Oxford, let alone Will Stanton, and he wasn't really sure what to think. He had not thought about the other boy very often since they had stopped writing, and when he did it was always with conflicted feelings. He could remember a brief period when Will had been his best friend, but he could never quite remember what had first brought them together. It was as if there had been some special bond between them, something that had subsequently disappeared. There was no doubt in Bran's mind that Will had been the first to abandon their friendship. He had begged off coming to visit Bran in Wales when they were thirteen, explaining that he had too much to do at home over the summer, and from that point on he had started taking longer and longer to reply to Bran's letters, until eventually their correspondence ceased entirely, and Will's presence in Bran's life had faded into memory.

Now all of a sudden here he was, Will Stanton, living and breathing and carrying around cardboard boxes. He had grown, of course, and his face had thinned, though it still retained a certain boyish quality, and he still had to brush his fringe away from his eyes. How different he was on the inside, however, Bran could only imagine. Obviously something had changed, seeing as Will had pulled away from him, and Bran reflected that for all he knew, he might not even like the person Will had become. Will had broken off their friendship, Bran reasoned; let Will be the one to renew it if he wanted to.

When Bran entered the dining hall that evening with his tray of food, he found himself before a sea of unfamiliar faces, most of who seemed to be chatting animatedly with one another over their food. He had begun to scan the room for an empty table, as was his habit at home, when he heard someone calling his name. Startled, he looked for the source of the voice, and saw the boy he and Will had met in the hall earlier, smiling in his direction.

"Bran, over here!" he called again, and Bran made his way to the table. The boy was sitting with two girls, one of whom had bright purple hair. When Bran got there, the boy gestured toward an empty seat. "That is your name, isn't it?" he asked.

"Well, you've got the right idea," Bran responded as he sat down, "though the Welsh pronunciation is a bit different. It's got more of a long _a_: _Bran_"

"_Bran_," the boy attempted.

"Not bad for a _sais bach_," Bran said with a grin. "And your name was?"

"Robbie, plain and simple."

"Right, now I remember. And you live in the same building, too, right?"

"Yes, number 308, just upstairs from you." Robbie was interrupted by a slight cough from the girl with the purple hair, who looked at him and raised her eyebrows. "Oh yes, this is Kate," he said, then pointed toward the other girl at the table, who was rather tall and wore square glasses, "and this is Sarah."

Sarah extended her hand across the table. "Nice to meet you, Bran," she said with a perfect accent. Laughing at the Welsh boy's impressed look, she explained, "I have Welsh cousins, so I've spent a lot of time there. I still can't say the name of that town that starts off Llanfa-something, though."

"That's alright," Bran reassured her. "Truth be told, even Welsh people have trouble with that one, it's so bloody long. So how do you all know each other, then?"

"We all come from the same school in London," the girl named Kate said. "We've been in the same class for five years, and just when you'd think we'd be sick of each other, here we are at uni together! Is there anyone else from your school here?"

"From Tywyn, are you joking? As far as I know, there's no one else from the county coming here."

"What about that boy you were talking with earlier—Will?"

"Oh, he's as English as you are, from Buckinghamshire. I met him when he came to stay with his aunt and uncle who are neighbours of mine. We haven't seen each other in years, though."

A few days later, on his way back from his first Music Theory class, Bran ran into Kate, who was tacking something up on a public announcement board. She turned around at his greeting, then smiled in recognition.

"Oh, hi Bran! How are you? How are your classes?"

"Well," Bran replied, "I've only had two so far. I just came from Music Theory, which looks really interesting. I had History of Early Music yesterday, though, and I can tell already that I'm going to have a hard time staying awake in that one. How about you?"

"I've been to Italian Romantic Poetry, The 19th Century Russian Novel, and a poetry writing workshop. I'm really excited about the workshop, even though the professor made it sound like he's going to be pretty merciless in his criticism." She made a face.

"What's that you're putting up on the bulletin board," Bran asked.

"Oh, this," she showed him a stack of flyers yet to be posted. "We're trying to start a GSA here at St. John's."

"A GSA, what's that?"

"A Gay-Straight Alliance. It's something they started just a few years ago in America, a group of gay students and their straight friends who get together to talk about issues surrounding sexual orientation, how to combat discrimination, things like that. You met my girlfriend Sarah, right? Well, she and Robbie and I are trying to start one here."

Bran couldn't hide his astonishment. "You mean, you and Sarah are…"

"Girlfriends, yes." Bran noted a hint of challenge in her voice. Of course, he had no problem with the fact that Kate and Sarah were girlfriends; it was just that he had never met anyone before who openly stated that they were gay. Back home, that would have been unthinkable. There was one boy two years below him who liked to sing and didn't play sports, and that was enough to earn him a level of ostracism worse than anything Bran had ever experienced.

"I didn't know… I mean, that's great," he said feebly.

"Anyway, our first meeting is this Friday night at 9:00, in Henderson 210. You should come!"

"I'll, umm, see if I have time," Bran replied. "See you later."

Bran spent much of the next few days debating whether or not to go to the meeting Kate had told him about. The issue was not, of course, whether he had time, as he had not made any other friends so far, and was not particularly keen to go out to the pubs like he had heard others planning to do. His main concern was rather that he really didn't want to be drawing any more attention to himself at the moment than absolutely necessary. As he had expected, his appearance had already drawn a number of odd looks from the other students, and while no one had insulted him to his face, no one had gone out of their way to reach out to him since that first night, either.

He tried to tell himself that there was no risk in simply going to a meeting; after all, the Kate had said it was for gay people and straight people, which essentially meant everybody. Nevertheless, he couldn't help feeling that the group wasn't going to turn out to be the most popular on campus. Of course, in the back of his mind he also knew that his issues with his own sexuality weren't helping, either. He had never openly considered the possibility that he might be anything other than straight—one did not ask that sort of question at home, not even to one's self—but he had never been particularly interested in the girls at school. He had always put it down to his own reclusive, antisocial nature, but thinking about the GSA meeting was leading him to some rather uncomfortable thoughts in that area.

He was so distracted during his first private harp lesson on Friday afternoon that his teacher broke off in the middle of explaining an alternative tuning system. "Bran," he asked, "is something the matter?"

"No, professor, I just… well, it's been a long first week here, and—"

"It's all right, I understand. Let's call it a day, shall we? Get some rest, practice the fingering we went over, and I'll see you on Tuesday," he said with a smile. Bran thanked him, put his harp in its case, and headed back to his room. Professor Billings seemed like a very kind man and a patient teacher, and Bran regretted not having paid better attention, but his head was just not in the right place to be able to focus properly. He determined to make up for his inattention at the next lesson. On his way back to the dormitory he passed one of the flyers for the GSA meeting. _It can't hurt to go just this once_, he thought. _I'll give it a try_.

Will glanced across the courtyard to see Bran heading toward the dormitory, his harp case slung across his back. They hadn't spoken much since that first day, other than the occasional greeting when they passed each other in the hall, but Will had been watching. He knew that Bran spent hours on end in his room—playing his harp, Will thought, though he couldn't be sure. He also knew that Bran ate most of his meals alone.

Not that Will spent all of his time peering at Bran from behind columns and around corners. To the contrary, he was surprised to find how quickly his time filled up with business of his own. His classes—Cultural Anthropology, Archaeology, Historical Linguistics, and Ancient Greek—were all demanding, and he found himself flooded with hundreds of pages of required reading before he knew it. His skills as an Old One certainly gave him an advantage in some respects, especially in his Ancient Greek class, but they did nothing to decrease the amount of reading he was assigned.

He had also joined the college choir, which turned out to have an unexpectedly rigorous rehearsal schedule, though that did not make him regret his decision in the slightest. True, he would have more time for class work if he didn't have to go to choir rehearsal so often, but he knew that the trade-off wouldn't be worth it. Singing had always been one of his favourite pastimes, but since the final battle with the Dark, it had acquired a new significance. Only when Will was singing could he experience any kind of release from the heavy burden that he felt constantly as the Watcher. The sensation of relief was slight, and did not last, but Will doubted that he could bear to go on without it.

Climbing the stairs to his room, Will's thoughts returned to Bran. He recognized that watching from afar was not going to tell him much more about the Welsh boy than he already knew. Now that the first week of classes were over, he had time to try to reach out directly, but he was still nervous. How did one approach a friend who was no longer really a friend? Will knew more about Bran's past than Bran himself, but that was of no use to him here. Maybe he should invite him out for a pint; that was what students were supposed to do on the weekend, right?

Will reached his room, went in, checked the quartered-circle talismans in the window and over the door, dropped his rucksack on the bed, and took a deep breath. Then he went out again, retraced his steps down one flight of stairs, walked slowly down the hall, and stopped in front of Bran's door. He knocked.

"Come in, it's open," Bran called from inside. Will entered to find Bran, not at his harp as Will had expected, but sitting at his desk. There was nothing on the desk other than his electric typewriter, which was turned off. "Oh, hello Will," he said simply.

"Hi Bran," Will began, trying not to show his nervousness. "How have you been?"

"Good. Glad it's the weekend, though."

"Me too." There was an awkward pause, then Will continued. "Listen, if you don't have plans tonight, I was wondering if you'd like to go out and get a pint, or something." The words sounded stiff and artificial to his ears, but he kept going. "It's been such a long time and, well, it would be nice to talk."

Will could have sworn that Bran gave him a suspicious look before answering, but it passed quickly. "I would," he said, "but I'm actually going to a meeting tonight."

"Really?" Will replied, hoping he didn't sound too surprised. What kind of meeting?"

Bran definitely hesitated this time, but then he answered, "It's a group that Robbie and his friends are trying to start, called a GSA; I'm sure you've seen the flyers." He then repeated to Will what Kate had told him about the idea. "It sounds interesting, so I figured I would go and see what it's like."

Will remembered hearing about this kind of group before, but he'd never given it serious thought. There certainly hadn't been a GSA at his school, which was understandable given the taboo nature of the subject. Why would Bran be interested in that kind of thing? Will wondered briefly whether he should go to the meeting too, but decided against it. He had to think things through more thoroughly first. "Well," he said, "you'll have to tell me what it's like. Maybe we can have that drink some other time."

"Yeah, some other time," Bran echoed.

As Will closed the door behind him, he let out a sigh. Figuring out his old friend was going to be even harder than he thought.


	7. Gloria

Master and Mage

By Sam Davidson

Disclaimer: Susan Cooper graced the world with these characters, and we mortals may only pick them up and play with them, putting them back gratefully when we are done.

This story is slash. If you have a problem with that, then do not read it. Or do, but don't get mad at _me_ if it offends _your_ homophobic sensibilities. For the rest of you: enjoy!

A/N: Sorry for the short chapter. I meant to write a longer one, but I'm hoping that posting this will give me more momentum to keep writing.

Lastly, this story is meant to be set circa 1980. If you notice any anachronisms or other such errors, please let me know. Now, on with the story…

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Chapter 7: Gloria

Not long after Will got back to his room, he heard a soft knock on his door. Thinking it must be Bran, he steeled himself for another strained conversation, then called, "Come in."

It wasn't Bran. In fact, it wasn't even anyone he had ever spoken to before. Will recognised the girl standing in his doorway as an alto with a very pleasant voice from the college choir, but he had no idea why she had come to his room. "Will?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yes, that's me," Will replied. "I'm sorry, I don't remember your name, though."

"That's alright." The girl let out a soft laugh. "I wouldn't have remembered yours either, except for the fact that it's written on your door. I'm Jane."

Will did not allow his facial expression to change, but on the inside he was startled by the force of the wave of emotions that the name evoked. He knew that this girl was not Jane Drew. Jane Drew was, last he knew, living in Surrey, where her family had moved three years earlier, and was currently considering whether to take a gap year before starting university. She was slight of build and still wore her long, straight hair in a pony tail, while the girl standing in front of him seemed like the athletic sort, with bushy brown hair pulled back in a knot. Realizing she had extended her hand toward him, Will shook it and forced a smile. "Nice to meet you in person," he said.

"I just came by because I noticed that you lived on this hall, and I live just upstairs, and so I thought I'd come and see if you wanted to walk over to choir rehearsal together."

In the midst of his preoccupation with Bran, Will had completely forgotten about that night's rehearsal, though of course now that Jane had mentioned it, he could clearly remember the choir director reminding them all about it. It was a good thing Bran hadn't agreed to that drink, he thought to himself. It also meant there was no question about accompanying Bran to his meeting.

"You know, I'd forgotten all about it," Will said out loud. "So I'm glad you came by. Let me just dig out my music folder, and then we can walk over." Coming up with the folder after rummaging in a desk drawer for a moment, he shrugged on his jacket and directed a genuine smile at Jane. "Shall we?"

Rehearsal that night was dedicated to a 14th century setting of the _Gloria_ that they had begun working on the last time, and which Will found himself warming to after an initial scepticism. He was grateful, as he had often been before, that Merriman's prediction had come true and, after a difficult period in which his throat had emitted sounds entirely out of his control and the vicar back in Hunter's Combe had relegated him to the back row of the choir, his voice had eventually settled into a pleasant baritone. When it came time to sing pieces such as the _Gloria_, in which the tenor part was full of impressive but tricky runs of notes, Will was more than happy to sit back, as it were, and provide the relatively simple backup of the bass part.

_Gloria in excelsis Deo…_

Will enjoyed watching the faces of the other choir members as they sang. Some had their faces buried in their music folders, while others watched the director as closely as they could, following the movements of his hands as if hypnotised. Some, when they got lost or made a mistake, would scowl at their music, while others would just laugh.

_Laudamus te, benedicimus te, adoramus te, glorificamus te…_

Jane caught Will's eye from across in the alto section, and grinned at him. Will, caught up in the pleasure of singing, grinned back.

_Gratias agimus tibi, propter magnam gloriam tuam…_

Jane looked back down at her music, but Will kept watching her. Something about her seemed more lively, more animated than the rest of the girls around her. She seemed, to Will's eye, to radiate pleasure as she sang.

_Hosanna in excelsis…_

Then, a thought came to him, so unexpected that it almost dried up his voice right then in his throat. Jane was beautiful.

_Amen._


End file.
